The Little Lodge Of Long Ago: Poem by Douglas Malloch

The Little Lodge of long ago — It wasn't very much for show; Men met above the village store, And cotton more than satin wore, And sometimes stumbled on a word, But no one cared, or no one heard. Then tin reflectors threw the light Of kerosene across the night And down the highway served to call The faithful to Masonic Hall. It wasn't very much, I know, The little lodge of long ago.

But, men who meet in finer halls, Forgive me if the mind recalls With love, not laughter, doors of pine, And smoky lamps that dimly shine, Regalia tarnished, garments frayed, Or cheaply bought or simply made, And floors uncarpeted, and men Whose grammar falters now and then — For Craft, or Creed, or God Himself, Is not a book upon a shelf: They have a splendor that will touch A Lodge that isn't very much.

It isn't very much — and yet This made it great: there Masons met. And, if a handful or a host, That always matters, matters most. The beauty of the meeting hour Is not a thing of robe or flow'r, However beautiful they seem: The greatest beauty is the gleam Of sympathy in honest eyes. A Lodge is not a thing of size, It is a thing of Brotherhood, And that alone can make it good.